A SCRAP OF PAPER 


PZ 3 
. 112329 
Sc 

COPY 1 

BY 

H. C. McNEILE 


NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

* 


( 





COPYRIGHT, 1924 , 
BY H. C. MC NEILE 



A SCRAP OF PAPER 4 

-B - 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

©C1A792911 


M 20 1924 


f 




A SCRAP OF PAPER 


“X SN’T that Jack Delman, the polo-player?” I re- 

I marked to my companion as he resumed his seat. 

My eyes idly followed the two> people he had 
been speaking to, as they made their way out of the 
restaurant. The man, bronzed, clean-cut, hard-as- 
nails, typical of all that is best in English athleticism; 
the woman, graceful, fair, and utterly charming with¬ 
out being exactly pretty. They had paused by our 
table and spoken to the man I was dining with—spoken 
as people speak to a very old friend. And he had 
answered in the same strain. Then they had passed 
on, and Eustace Nolan, my companion, eminent critic 
and writer of belles-lettres, had sat down again with a 
faint reminiscent smile. He, too, watched them in 
silence until they were out of sight; then with the smile 
still on his lips he turned to me. 

“Quite right,” he remarked. “That’s Jack Delman 
—polo-player, master of hounds, cricketer, golfer, etc., 
etc. And with him was Loraine Delman—his wife.” 

“Loraine Delman!” I repeated. “Surely the name is 
familiar!” 

Eustace Nolan’s smile expanded. 

“To all save the utter Philistines even more so than 
his. She writes books, and very good books. Even 
I, who impartially damn everybody who practices that 
nefarious trade, have to admit they’re good.” 

“Of course,” I murmured, “I remember now.” And 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


4 

then for want of something to say I continued, idly: 
“A rather daring experiment in the marriage-line; 
there can’t be much in common between them. Do 
they get on well ?” 

“They didn’t look as if they were on the verge of 
divorce, did they?” He was still smiling gently to 
himself, as a man smiles who enjoys some secret 
thoughts of his own. “And yet she neither hunts— 
nor does she play either golf or tennis.” 

“A case of opposites hitting it off, I suppose.” And 
I glanced across at him. “What the dickens are you 
smiling about in that aggravating way?” 

He answered with another question. 

“Did you happen to notice that pearl locket she was 
wearing ?” 

“I did. Why?” 

“What do you think is inside it?” 

I raised my eyebrows. 

“My dear old boy,” I remarked, “as to the best of 
my belief this is the first time I’ve ever seen her, how 
should I possibly know ? Presumably a miniature of 
her husband—or of one of the children, if she’s got 
any.” 

He lit a cigar with the solemnity of the true con¬ 
noisseur before he spoke again. 

“In that locket,” he said, thoughtfully, “is the foun¬ 
dation of one of the happiest married lives that it has 
ever been my fortune to come in contact with—the 
married life of those two who have just left the res¬ 
taurant. It consists of a scrap of paper, and on that 
scrap of paper is written as follows: 'Aristotle. Born 
384 b.c. Died 3,22.’ ” 

For a moment or two I thought he was joking. The 
smile still lingered on his lips, while he studied the 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 5 

lighted end of his cigar critically. Apparently satisfied, 
he looked across at me. 

“Just that—and nothing more/' he continued. “And 
yet it had nothing whatever to do with that gentle¬ 
man’s.logic; rather was it all quite illogical.” 

“Confound you, Eustace,” I cried, “cease riddling 
me with riddles. What magic charm did such a bald 
and uninteresting fact work? And how? And why? 
You’ve roused my curiosity; now you’ve got to sat¬ 
isfy it.” 

For a while he hesitated; then he beckoned for the 
bill. ,, t 

“That’s fair,” he said, “though I don’t know 
whether I’m justified in doing so. You see—it’s not 
my secret. It’s just one of those things which one 
comes across in life which belong to the sacred inti¬ 
macy of others. But it’s also one of those things which 
it does one good to remember. Such a small thing— 
and yet such a big one. So I just want your promise 
that it won’t go farther, and then, if you care to, we’ll 
stroll round to my rooms and I’ll tell you the story of 
that .scrap of paper.” 

“You have my promise, of course,” 1 answered, and 
a few. minutes later we were strolling along Piccadilly 
to his fiat in Jermyn Street. 

“I’ve known Loraine Delman,” he began, when we 
were comfortably settled, “ever since she was the 
height of that coal-scuttle. She used, at the age of 
fourteen, to come and show me her immature attempts 
at writing—and even at that age I could see possi¬ 
bilities. She had to a marked extent what for want 
of a better phrase I will call the dramatic sense. In 
her baby way she could tell a story—and if only a few 
of our present-day writers would concentrate on that 


6 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


rather than on dissecting their kedgeree minds there 
would be the devil of a number more books sold. 

'‘Right from the start I encouraged her to persevere. 
And I very soon realized that it was not just the whim 
of a growing girl. She was keen, and she had in her 
that creative impulse which must express itself. It is 
present in all of us—though modern civilization decrees 
that only the minority can attempt to give it its natural 
outlet. It so frequently fails to provide one with that 
necessary commodity—bread and butter. 

“In her case it was different. A kindly aunt had 
died and left Loraine all her money, so that at the age 
of nineteen she had a thousand a year of her own, 
which was quite enough and yet not too 1 much. At the 
age of twenty-one she completed her first book. She 
sent it to me, and I realized as soon as I had read it 
that all my hopes were going to be fulfilled. There 
were faults in it, of course—faults of technique, faults 
of construction—but what did that matter? The vital 
spark was there—the life spark. And that’s all that 
counts. Technique can be acquired; the spark is given 
and can never be bought. 

“However, this isn’t a dissertation on the craft of 
writing. She got her first book published without the 
slightest difficulty. She’d have had none even without 
my help, but a private word from me settled things 
quicker. And a year later she finished her second. It 
fulfilled all the promise of the first, and made a great 
advance on it. In fact, it settled definitely that there 
was a big future in front of her, and, mentally, I sat 
down to watch it develop.” 

With a faint smile he pitched the butt-end of his 
cigar into the grate. 

“It came almost as a shock to me when she wrote 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


7 

and told me that she was engaged. I suppose it hadn’t 
occurred to me that she was grown-up; when you’ve 
dandled ’em as kids on your knee, and pulled the pig¬ 
tails of flapper-hood—I may say that it was before 
the days when the ambition of every girl was to make 
her head like a cedar-mop broom—you’re apt to forget 
that they are grown-up. So one Sunday I went off 
to see the young man. 

“Well, you know Jack Delman—so I won’t describe 
him physically. And six years ago he was just the same 
—a perfect young specimen of manhood. How he’d 
met her and why he’d fallen in love with her, with her 
totally dissimilar tastes, is beside the point. All that 
matters is that they were perfectly dotty about one 
another, and since there was no reason for delay they 
intended to get married at once. He had money of 
his own and was a year older than she was—so that 
from the accepted standpoint it was a most satisfactory 
match. They would get a house in a hunting country, 
with a flat in London as well. And he would hunt and 
shoot and play polo—and she would have her work 
to occupy her. Also, later on, they were going to 
travel a bit. Everything quite idyllic. In fact, so 
idyllic that one or two faint and unworthy doubts I 
had in my mind almost died. Almost—not quite; I’m 
a cynical blighter, I fear. 

“However, I had to confess to myself that there 
was no justification for them when I went to stay at 
their place soon after they returned from their honey¬ 
moon. Jack took me all round the stables—a form 
of entertainment which I particularly dread, as my 
knowledge of horses is confined to which end goes 
first. Then he took me on at tennis—a distressing af¬ 
fair, when I only succeeded in connecting with the ball 


8 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


twice, and then in the wrong direction. After, that he 
gave up the unequal contest and left me to my own 
devices and Loraine. 

“She was in the middle of a new book, and we dis¬ 
cussed it in the sacred holy of holies which was set 
apart for her writing. I read a bit of it, with intense 
curiosity. What effect had marriage with this en¬ 
thusiastic ball-striker had on her work? And I had to 
confess to myself that not only had it not suffered, but 
that it had improved. 

“ ‘Happy, my dear ?’ I said to her, as she slipped 
her arm through mine in the garden before dinner. 

“ ‘Utterly, completely, and absolutely/ she answered, 
and she certainly looked it. ; 

“So did he; I’ve never seen a couple more intensely 
happy than they both seemed. He would ask her with 
intense solemnity if Mabel had been kissed by the 
villain yet; she would counter with tender inquiries as 
to the right front leg of one of his horses. And then 
they’d laugh and look at one another, while I pre¬ 
tended not to notice. For the look wasn’t hard to 
interpret, and horses and books and ball games and 
work are just the merest etceteras of life when a man 
and a woman feel that way.” 

He paused and pushed the whisky in my direction. 

“Help yourself, old man; I’m coming to our friend 
Aristotle soon. I didn’t see them again for over two 
years: I was in America ‘most of the time. And when 
I came back I had a lot of things to do which kept me 
in London. But one day at the club I ran into her 
publisher, and we lunched together. A human fellow 
—very human, who took a real interest in his authors 
as well as in their books. 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


9 

“'Seen your protegee lately?’ he asked, suddenly. 
‘Loraine Delman, I mean.’ 

“I told him I was only just back from the States 
and hadn’t seen anybody. 

“ 'A clinking good book—that last one of hers,’ I 
continued. 'Or perhaps there is yet another that I 
haven’t seen?’ 

“ ‘There is,’ he said, and his tone of voice made me 
look at him nervously. 

“ ‘What’s the matter with it ?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t it up 
to form ?’ 

“ ‘Yes and no,’ he answered, thoughtfully. ‘It’s 
good in its way—very good. Almost the best she’s 
done, in fact. But there’s a new note in it, Nolan— 
and one I’m sorry to see.’ 

“ ‘And that is ?’ I asked. 

“‘Bitterness. I wondered if you could supply the 
clew.’ And then he added as an after-thought: ‘You 
know there was a baby, don’t you?’ 

“ ‘I didn’t,’ I said, ‘but I’m not surprised.’ 

“ ‘It died,’ he remarked. 

“ ‘By Jove! I am out of things,’ I cried. ‘I wish 
I’d known: I’d have written to her. But perhaps that 
accounts for the bitterness.’ 

“ ‘Perhaps it does,’ he said, but it struck me he didn’t 
think so. 

“Anyway, what he said quite decided me. I should 
have gone down anyway to look them up; now I made 
up my mind to go at once. Loraine bitter! I didn’t 
like the sound of that at all. Though, Heaven knows, 
the loss of her first kid might make any woman so. 

“I wrote her a line telling her I was back, and by 
return I got a letter asking me to go and stay for as 
long as I liked. So down I went to their charming 


10 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


house in the hunting country, determined to solve the 
mystery of Loraine’s bitterness. There was certainly 
no trace of it visible as she greeted me when I arrived 
about tea-time. She was just her own charming self, 
and for a few minutes we talked about my trip to 
America. Then the maid brought tea and lit the lamps, 
and we got down to more personal topics. 

“'Where is Jack?’ I asked, as she handed me my 
cup. 

“ 'My dear Eustace,’ she answered, with a faint 
smile, ‘where do you think? Out hunting, of course. 
He won’t be back till late this evening. The meet was 
at the other side of the county.’ 

“ 'I see,’ I murmured. 'Only, perceiving the third 
cup, I wondered.’ 

" ‘Hubert Daventry said he might drop in,’ she 
answered, casually. ‘Do you know him by any 
chance ?’ 

“ ‘The artist, do you mean ?’ and she nodded. ‘Oh, 
yes, I know him.’ 

“I suppose there was something in the tone of my 
voice that said more than the mere words, for she 
looked at me quickly. 

“ ‘Don’t you like him ?’ 

“ ‘My dear, I only know him very slightly,’ I re¬ 
plied, and changed the conversation. 

“Now it was quite true that I did only know Hubert 
Daventry very slightly, but I knew his reputation very 
well. And he was one of the last men in the world 
whom I would have chosen to have hanging round 
any woman who was anything to do with me. Heaven 
knows, Pm not and never have been particularly 
squeamish, but Daventry was a putrid specimen. 
Clever, very good-looking, and most amusing—his 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


ii 


specialty was other men’s wives. There was a case of 
a fellow in some cavalry regiment who flogged him 
almost unconscious in Jermyn Street one night. . . . 
So you get the man. And, as so often happens, women 
didn’t spot it—until it was too late. Why they don’t 
recognize that particular brand is one of the unex¬ 
plained mysteries, but there it is. 

“And yet I had to admit to myself when he came in 
that there was nothing particularly spottable about him. 
The conversation while he remained was general; he 
told a couple of stories about men I knew extremely 
well; he seemed what, in fact, he was, an agreeable, 
well-bred man of the world. 

“It was as he rose to go that he made the only re¬ 
mark which could possibly be construed into something 
slightly personal. 

“ ‘I think I’ve got exactly what you want, Mrs. 
Delman. It took a bit of finding, and it will take more 
keeping. So you must let me know as soon as possible 
what you finally decide.’ 

“ ‘I will,’ she said. ‘And thank you most awfully.’ 

“With that he was gone, and she turned to me. 

“ ‘He’s looking for a small flat for me in London,’ 
she said, quietly. ‘They seem very hard to get.’ 

“‘But are you thinking of leaving this house?’ I 
asked, surprised. ‘I thought you loved it.’ 

“Her hands clenched at her sides. 

“ ‘It stifles me, Eustace—utterly stifles me. From 
morning to night the atmosphere is concentrated sport, 
sport, sport. The people round here think of nothing 
else; Jack thinks of nothing else. And if it wasn’t for 
Hubert Daventry I don’t know what I’d do. He’s the 
only person with whom it is possible to obtain five 
minutes’ intelligent conversation.’ 


12 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


“So it had come to that, had it? 

“ ‘My dear/ I said, gently, ‘Pm sorry. Aren’t things 
well with you and Jack?’ 

“She didn’t answer for a time, and when she did it 
was in a rather unexpected way. 

“ ‘My new book,’ she said, ‘is utterly rotten. I’m 
under no delusions: it’s rotten.’ 

“A step sounded in the hall, and she gripped my 
arm. 

“ ‘Not a word to Jack. I trust you.’ 

“The next moment he came in—radiant with health, 
his pink coat covered with mud. 

“ ‘Great to see you, old man!’ he cried. ‘Splendid 
run. Ten-mile point and pulled him down in the 
open.’ 

“He bubbled with it. We got the run field by field 
and spinney by spinney, and while he was drinking his 
whisky-and-soda I caught Loraine’s eye. And the look 
she gave me said as plainly as if she had spoken: ‘Now 
you can judge for yourself.’ ” 

Nolan paused and lit a cigarette. 

“It is boring/ , he continued, “there’s no good deny¬ 
ing it. Hunting shop to people who don’t hunt is a 
dreadful infliction, and as I went up to dress for dinner 
things were clearer. And the clearer they became the 
more sorry I was. Though I’m not a marrying man 
myself, TVe got illusions on the subject/ 'Moreover,' I 
loved both of them. —' .r ^ 

“At dinner that night things became clearer Stilt. 
There were only the three of us, and they each talked 
to me rather than to one another. To the outsider 
everything was quite normal ; to me, who had known 
them in the past, the change was marked. No more of 
those little intimate jokes and leg-pulls, but just re- 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 13 

serve. And it was I who quite unwittingly introduced 
the personal element by mentioning Daventry. I re¬ 
gretted it the instant after, but the mischief was done. 

“Jack frowned heavily, and Loraine was up in arms 
at once. 

“ ‘He was having tea here this afternoon, Jack/ she 
said, clearly. 

“ ‘Well,-he's a damned outsider/ returned her hus¬ 
band. ‘Don’t you agree with me, Eustace?’ 

“ ‘Of course, he doesn’t hunt,’ said Loraine, sweetly. 

“Jack laughed. ‘Hunt! That swab! Why, he’d 
fall off a horse walking along the road.’ 

“ ‘But then he does know that Rachmaninoff didn’t 
build the Pyramids/ said his wife still more sweetly, 
and Jack flushed and dried up. 

“It was all so foolish, and so easy, and so pathetic. 
And the devil of it was that there seemed to be nothing 
to do. However well you know two people, you can’t 
interfere in a show of that sort unless you’re specifi¬ 
cally asked to. And even then the betting is that you 
will incur the undying enmity of both. The cure has 
got to come from within and not without, and during 
the next two or three days I began to fear that things 
had gone too far for any cure. Every night after 
dinner Jack retired to his study, and long after I’d 
gone to bed I used to hear him coming upstairs. He 
said nothing to me, and she didn’t allude to the sub¬ 
ject again—but it was obvious that things couldn’t 
go on as they were. Something would have to happen, 
and happen soon. It did: on the night but one before 
I was due to go. Jack was dining out at some house 
in the neighborhood with a bachelor party who were 
down for the hunting, and Loraine and I dined alone. 

“It was a crisp, frosty night, and after dinner we 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


14 

decided to go for a walk. For a long time we walked 
in silence, and then she deliberately reverted to the 
subject of her relations with Jack. Step by step she 
traced them, and I listened with a hopeless sort of feel¬ 
ing. Had they come to the parting of the roads, or 
had they not ? That was the question—reiterated again 
and again. 

“ ‘I don’t know what to do, Eustace,’ she said, as we 
got back to the house again and went into the drawing¬ 
room. ‘He’d be happy enough away from me once the 
shock was over. I’m no companion to him.’ 

“ ‘You were once, my dear,’ I said. ‘You were both 
such wonderful pals.’ 

“ ‘Yes—we were once,’ she echoed, wearily. ‘But 
you can’t stand still, Eustace. Oh, it isn’t his fault, 
and I don’t think it’s mine. It’s just happened—that’s 
all. He thinks of nothing, lives for nothing, cares for 
nothing but sport. Why, he was hunting four days 
after Billy died.’ 

“She was looking at a photograph in a silver frame— 
the photograph of her baby. And in her eyes was a 
look of passionate, yearning love. 

“ ‘But, dear girl,’ I said, ‘that doesn’t mean he didn’t 
care. Men take things like that differently to women.’ 

“ ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter,’ she cried. ‘Don’t let’s 
think about that. The point is what to do now. I 
can’t work in this house; my nerves are all on edge. 
And am I to sacrifice the whole of my career, just be¬ 
cause I haven’t the nerve to take a final step to end it? 
Look at him! He goes off every night to his study to 
ready some trashy sporting novel, and then he objects 
to my friends.’ 

“ ‘Loraine,’ I said, quietly, ‘Daventry is a bit of a 
rotter.’ 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


15 

“ ‘He’s amusing, anyway, and surely I’m old enough 
to take care of myself,’ she answered. ‘No, Eustace— 
it’s the old question. I was a fool to think that I could 
escape it. Just at first everything was wonderful; but 
now—’ 

“She paused and stared at the fire. 

“ ‘Don’t you love him any more, my dear?’ I asked, 
gently. 

“ ‘Love him! Oh, yes—I still love him, I suppose. 
In a way. But even so, love isn’t everything, Eus¬ 
tace.’ 

“ ‘It’s damned near it,’ I said. ‘And it seems to me 
that once you’ve had the wonderful love which you 
and Jack had for one another you ought to think, and 
go on thinking again and again, before you cut it out 
of your life.’ 

“She made a little gesture of impatience. 

“ ‘I’ve been thinking for a year,’ she answered. ‘Oh, 
Eustace—I want to be free—free. And I can never 
be free in this house.’ 

“Free. The cry of all the ages. And what a futile 
cry it is! As if any human being can ever be free in 
the true sense of the word! We’re all dependent on 
some one, or they’re dependent on us. But all I said 
was:— 

“‘You were free enough here, Loraine, three years 
ago. A big love is the nearest approach to freedom 
you can have. It washes out selfishness.’ 

“But she wouldn’t listen, and I knew it was best for 
her to get it off her mind. It wasn’t as if she was 
going to leave Jack for good; they could still meet and 
spend some of their time together. If he wanted to— 
that’s to say. 

“‘But don’t you know that he wants to?’ I said. 


i6 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


‘I’m not much of a judge on such matters, but I’ve seen 
him looking at you when you didn’t know he was, and, 
Loraine, I don’t think he’s altered.’ 

“She shook her head. 

“‘Oh, yes, he has! We’ve both altered. It’s no 
one’s fault—it’s just happened.’ 

“Again and again she said that, and at length I saw 
there was no good going on. 

“ ‘If you feel that way-^-you’d better go, my dear. 
Perhaps you’ll change your mind once you’ve taken 
the step.’ 

“‘If only he wasn’t so awfully decent,’ she said, 
quietly, sitting down and cupping her hands under her 
chin. ‘So wonderfully white. I’ve never seen Jack 
do a rotten thing—get drunk or make a beast of him¬ 
self. Or even lose his temper. It’s that which makes 
it so hard. I wouldn’t hurt him, Eustace, for the 
world.’ 

“And then I realized. She was just arguing aloud; 
trying to convince herself—not me. 

“ ‘You admit it will hurt him, then, if you go?’ I 
said. 

“ ‘It’ll hurt me, too, in a way,’ she said, standing up 
suddenly. ‘Oh, don’t you see that’s the .whole point. 
One part of me longs to be free; the other longs for 
the love and-—and the passion of when we were first 
married. And between the two I’m on the rack.’ 

“Career versus love; the old story. And the de¬ 
cision must lie with her, and her alone. Only in her 
case the love was buried. I couldn’t believe it was 
dead, somehow—though too long burial is a dangerous 
thing. 

“‘If only he wasn’t so decent and straight,’ she 
repeated, wearily. ‘Anyway, let’s go to bed/ 



A SCRAP OF PAPER 17 

. /‘And at that moment the door opened and Jack 
entered. For a moment I stared at him in amazement, 
and I heard Loraine catch her breath. For Jack Del- 
man was what I had never seen him before—drunk. 
Not tight, mark you—not merely merry, but blind 
drunk. He lurched to a chair, and sat there staring 
at us foolishly. His tie was half off, his waistcoat un¬ 
done, and he wasn’t a pleasant spectacle. 

“ ‘Jack!’ gasped his wife. ‘What’s the matter with 

you?' 

“ ‘Matter, my dear,’ he said, unsteadily. ‘Nothing 
matter-. I'se little—little bit—’toxicated. Thatsh all.’ 

’“She swung round on me, and there was a new look 
in* her* eyes. 

'“That settles it/ she said, quietly, and with that 
she left the room. 

“The last straw, and I swore inwardly. If only he 
hadn’t got drunk on that of all nights; if only, even, 
he’d gtme straight to his own room. Upstairs the door 
of her room banged, and I turned to Jack. 

“ Til help you up to bed,’ I said, curtly, and he 
laughed. 

“ ‘Thank you, Eustace, for your well-meant offer of 
assistance,’ he answered, ‘but I’m quite capable of get¬ 
ting there myself. Pretty good effort on my part, 
wasn’t it?’ 

“I stared at him in amazement. 

“ ‘Good Lord, you’re not drunk!’ I said, foolishly. 

‘“Far from it,’ he replied. 

“ ‘Then what the devil—’ I began. 

‘“Oh, don’t let’s go over it again,’ he broke in 
wearily. ‘I happened to have been sitting over in that 
alcove behind the curtain in the window, reading one 


i8 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


of my trashy hunting novels. And I’m afraid Fve 
been eavesdropping/ 

“ ‘But, good heavens, old man!’ I cried, ‘why didn’t 
you come out?’ 

“He stared at me somberly, .* 

“ ‘What would have been the good?’ he answered. 
‘We all know where we stand now. I’m not particu¬ 
larly bright, Eustace, as you heard to-night. My God 
is sport—and this house stifles her.’ For a moment I 
thought he was going to break down. ‘It didn’t stifle 
her when we first came to it. Why, it was on that sofa, 
that we used to discuss her first book after we got 
married.’ 

“He turned away, and was silent for a while, 

“ ‘If she wants to go, Eustace—she shall go. It’s 
not fair to spoil her life—though, God knows, I’ve 
tried not to. I know I can’t talk to her; I know I’m 
a perfect damned fool. But I’d hoped—’ He paused 
abruptly, and stared at the window with a weary little 
smile that I had no clew to. ‘However, that’s over 
now. And I don’t suppose it would have been much 
use anyway. But, oh! great heavens, it’s like cutting 
out part of one’s life.’ 

“He buried his head in his hands, and his shoulders 
heaved. 

“‘Decent,’ he muttered. ‘What’s the use of that? 
Once a man and a woman have been mates—decency 
is no good. I’ve been a fool, Eustace—all through. It 
didn’t occur to me to sit moping after the kid died— 
though I loved him as much as she did. But it hurt 
her; I see it now.’ 

“Once again he was silent; then he swung round. 

“ ‘You’re not to tell her,’ he cried. ‘You’re to let 
her go on thinking .I was drunk to-night I . got the 



A SCRAP OF PAPER 19 

idea, you see, from what she said—and got out 
through the window. Perhaps later on, when she’s 
given things a trial—you might—let her know. And 
until then—look after her, old man. It’s not her 
women pals I mind, though they frighten me to death— 
but if that sweep Daventry—’ 

“He paused and his fists clenched. 

“ Til- look after her, Jack,’ I said, gruffly. The 
momentary passion at the thought of Daventry had 
died out of his eyes; they were just hopelessly weary 
again. 

“ ‘Thanks/ he said. ‘And if you don’t mind I think 
I’ll go to bed now.’ 

“I heard him go upstairs to his own room, and 
after a while I switched off the lights and followed. 
Things had come to a head with a vengeance, but 
maybe it was all for the best. We’d let her have her 
way, and later on, when a little more water had passed 
under the bridge, I’d tell her.” 

Nolan smiled faintly, and helped himself to a 
whisky-and-soda. 

“Thus does man propose: Fate works otherwise. 
When I got down the next morning Jack had already 
gone out—hunting again. And shortly after Loraine 
came down herself. With an expressionless face she 
glanced at her husband’s used plate, but she made no 
remark. And it was not till after breakfast that she 
told me she had written to Daventry saying she would 
take the flat. 

“‘It’s not merely because of what happened last 
night, Eustace,’ she remarked, quietly. ‘That was just 
the final thing that settled it. And, in a way, I’m 
glad.’ 

“But was she? I watched her all that day as she 


20 A SCRAP OF PAPER 

moved about the house—lingering this, touching that, 
as if she were saying good-by. And a dozen times 
the truth trembled on the tip of my tongue, but I bit 
it back. If things were to come right in the long run, 
it would be better to leave it for the present—much 
better. Later on I’d do it: it would keep. Just now 
she might think it was a put-up job—an excuse. 

“It was about three o’clock that she suddenly came 
into the room where I was doing some overdue work. 

“‘Eustace,’ she said, and her voice was numb, 
‘they’re bringing something up the drive. Something 
on a stretcher. Will you come ?’ /; 

“Fo.r a moment I* didn’t understand; then I dashed 
to the front door. It was Jack right enough, and 
from the color of his face I feared the worst. 

“ ‘Is he dead?’ I muttered, stupidly. 

“ ‘No, sir,’ said one of the men carrying him, ‘but 
he’s had a terrible fall. Over wire. Horse broke its 
back.’ 

“ ‘Take him upstairs,’ said Loraine, calmly. ‘And, 
Eustace, please ’phone for the doctor.’ 

“She took charge of everything, and I ran about 
from room to room feeling the usual unutterable nuis¬ 
ance a man does in such circumstances. The doctor 
came, made his examination,: and departed! rubhingriiis 
han^s. - : r ' ’ • - ' V ~ ■ 

‘* ‘No need for anxiety, Mrs. Delman,’ he announced. 
‘He’ll be hunting again in a month. But you must 
really speak to your young man, you know. He never 
turns his head from anything, but to-day he was more 
reckless than ever. We can’t have him breaking his 
neck.’ 

“ ‘Of course, this alters it, Eustace,’ she said when 
the doctor had gone. ‘I can’t go until he’s fit again.’ 




A SCRAP OF PAPER 


21 


“And the truth trembled for the thirteenth time— 
trembled and came out. She listened to me with dawn¬ 
ing amazement on her face, and when I’d finished she 
rose unsteadily to her feet. 

“ ‘Pretending,’ she whispered. ‘So as to give me a 
chance. Oh, thank God! thank God! my man—you 
weren’t killed.’ She walked over to the window and 
stood staring out. And then suddenly she bent for¬ 
ward, and took two books from behind the cushion on 
the seat. 

“For a while she stared at them uncomprehend- 
ingly, and then I heard her whisper very low: ‘Eustace 
—come here.’ 

“I crossed to her side, and together we looked at 
the books. One was a notebook filled with Jack’s 
scrawling handwriting; the other was a volume of an 
Encyclopedia. And in it was a bit of paper on which 
was written—‘Aristotle. Born 384 b.c. Died 322.’ 

“The books fell from her hands, and the next mo¬ 
ment she was sobbing her heart out in my arms. 

“ ‘So that’s what he went to his study for—and I 
talked about trashy hunting novels.’ 

“I confess that for the life of me I couldn’t speak. 
I’d got the clew now to that twisted smile of his last 
night-^dear lad. 

“ ‘Oh, you precious bit of paper!’ she cried, kissing 
old Aristotle. And then she stared at me through her 
tear-drenched eyes. 

“ ‘Riding more recklessly than ever to-day. Oh, 
Jack—-you’ve just got to forgive me. Go up and see 
him, Eustace: tell him you’ve told me. And ask him 
if I may come/ ” 

Again Nolan smiled quietly. 

“As I say, I’m not a marrying man—but I have 


22 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


illusions. And they weren’t shattered that afternoon. 
I ji^st heard his voice—a bit low and shaky—as she 
came past me to his bedside; I just saw her go down 
on her knees beside him with a little sobbing cry. And 
then I went out and left them. And I suppose things 
must have been all right, for about two hours later 
Hubert Daventry rang up. He wanted to speak to 
Loraine. So I called through the door to tell her. 

“They both answered. 

“She said: ‘Tell him I don’t want his beastly flat.’ 

“He said: ‘Tell him to go to blazes.’ ” 





























LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



0 002 176 050 
















































